


Hell is a Mall in Pennsylvania

by Truth



Category: Dawn of the Dead (1978)
Genre: Character Death, Other, Pregnancy, Violence, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truth/pseuds/Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would have happened if the zombie in Penney's had gone for Stephen instead of Roger?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell is a Mall in Pennsylvania

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angledust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angledust/gifts).



Hell, Francine knew, was a mall in Pennsylvania.

She’d never been very religious. Church had been something her parents did, and something that was expected of her, so she attended regularly. She didn’t really have a strong belief in Heaven; that amorphous cloud of reward that supposedly hovered about somewhere, overseen by a benevolent god who always reminded her vaguely of Santa Claus.

Hell, on the other hand, had suddenly become a very real and terrifying concept.

“Francine?”

The dimly lit storage room felt too large, leaving them exposed instead of hidden, the door an inadequate barrier to the horror outside. The helicopter on the roof now just another relic of an era as dead as the creatures slowly clustering around the shopping mall and cutting off their other avenues of escape. 

“Francine.”

Everything familiar had been stripped away. Their flight from the television station had landed her once again in a small room without windows, surrounded by chaos and horror. The situation hadn’t changed, save that she’d lost even the meager feeling of control found by familiar surroundings and familiar faces. She’d had a purpose there -

“You’re not serious.”

“Just move out of the way.”

The voices didn’t penetrate, really. She was aware of them, but horror and shock weighed her down like a heavy fog. Maybe it was a nightmare, trading one situation of helplessness and horror for another.

“You can’t treat shock like that.”

“She’s not in shock. She’s grieving, and we don’t got time for that.”

The water itself didn’t do much. The ice-cold temperature and the force with which it was applied, brought her gaspingly upright from her slump against the wall. “What the hell -?”

Peter set aside the fire bucket and sank to his heels. “Look, I know things are bad, but you’re a tough girl. You knew this might happen. We all did. Instead of four - now we’re three. Three might still make it. Two - that’s a lot harder. You got to think about living, Francine. We got no time for the dead.”

She wanted to say that it wasn’t fair. She wanted to blame him for what happened - him and Roger. She wanted to scream or to throw things. 

Instead, she combed her fingers through her sodden hair and glared at Peter. “You shouldn’t have left me behind.”

“You don’t know how to handle a gun, Francine.” Roger was rummaging in the boxes, coming up with a blanket that he passed to her as she rose from the puddle of water. “What could you have done?”

“I could have watched or screamed or thrown things - just because I don’t know how to use a gun doesn’t mean you should leave me behind.” She wanted to blame Stephen’s death on them - but couldn’t. Peter had given her a rifle, and when Stephen woke, he’d taken it from her to chase after them, and she’d let him go. Stephen was the only one at fault, and he’d just wanted to help. Neither of them had ever been good at feeling helpless.

She bit down hard on a lot of bitter words, some of them self-directed. “If we were really four, if you’d really believed that, you’d’ve taken us along anyway. Even if I couldn’t have changed anything, I could’ve at least hit one of them with the rifle.”

“Yeah, that’s only a good idea in the movies.” Peter stared at her for a long moment. “Someone with a gun who doesn’t know how to use it is more dangerous -”

“Then someone will have to teach me.” She set her jaw, using the blanket in an only partially successful attempt to dry off. “If you hadn’t left me to go off exploring, maybe I could’ve changed things. Maybe Stephen wouldn’t be dead.”

“Or maybe you’d both be dead.” Peter snorted, rising to his feet. 

“We’ll never know, will we?”

Roger winced at the bitterness in the words. “You’re right Francine, and I’m sorry. Stephen was my friend, and I should’ve remembered he wasn’t -”

“Wasn’t a trigger-happy thrill-seeker?” She felt ashamed of the words, and flushed.

“Hey! That’s -”

“Accurate.” Peter appeared to have regained his sense of humor, dark as it was, and was hiding a smile. “All right. We’ll teach you to use a gun. All the guns. And then what?”

Steeling herself, Francine got to her feet, eyes going to the blood-stained binder they’d brought back with them. “Then we figure out how to use what we’ve got. Without Stephen, we’re trapped here. We’ll have to make the most of it.”

“Are we really trapped?” Roger made a gesture with his hands, grasping an invisible stick. “Didn’t Stephen ever take you up for a joyride, Francine? I mean, I rode with him a few times. D’you think we could figure it out?”

“Please.” Peter made a face. “I took a few flying lessons once, before I decided flying wasn’t my thing. It’s a lot more complicated than it looks.”

“You can fly it?”

“Not a chance in hell. A tiny plane isn’t the same as a helicopter, and that was years ago.”

Francine paused, staring at the blood on the binder. “Doesn’t this place have a bookstore? I mean, if we can find the manual in the helicopter, and maybe a few books?”

“It’s a _lot_ more complicated than it looks,” Peter repeated.

There was silence as Roger took the binder and a corner of Francine’s blanket, scrubbing at the blood.

“But it’s no worse than not doing anything at all. I don’t think crashing from two stories would be fatal, at any rate. But that’s a long term plan.” Peter sighed. “We’ve got much more urgent problems. Let’s… clean up a bit, block the door to the stairwell, and decide who will take first watch.”

**

“The easiest way,” as everyone ignored the bloodstained edges of the schematics, “will be to close off the stairwell altogether. We can find drywall or something, maybe some concrete blocks?”

“Getting in and out through the ducts is a pain in the ass, but it sure beats having the Hare Krishnas follow us home,” Roger said. “So that’s plan A - and there’s a hardware store on the second floor if the Penney’s doesn’t have everything we need.”

“We need to get us some more weapons and some ammunition. There’s a shop with everything we need not far along. We saw it on the way back.” Peter frowned, tapping his fingers against the ring of keys they’d stolen from the security center. “A lot of ammo, and a few targets. We’ll find you a gun, Francine, and teach you how to use it.”

“Thanks.” She turned a page, wincing as her fingers touched the dark brown edge. “There’s a listing here, of all the stores. We should be able to find everything we need to make this place liveable, and as long as the power holds out - “

“It will, as long as the power station itself keeps running. This place wasn’t chosen by civilian defense without a good reason. Power, water - we’re set for a good while.” Francine reached out to catch at Peter’s fingers where they were restlessly rattling the keys. He let her, sighing just a little. “The shopping mall is too open, too much of an easy target and I don’t just mean for the walking dead.”

“You think some of those trigger happy hunters might come by?” Francine shivered. “I don’t like that.”

“They’re the sort to shoot at anything that moves, but that’s not what he’s worried about,” Roger said. “He’s worried about people like us.”

“People escaping?” Francine looked from one man to the other. “No.”

“No. People scavenging. This place is a prime target. With the lights on and the power running, they’ll know the food here will still be good, the water will be clean - and that will bring them even faster than the sight of a helicopter on the roof.” Peter reached out to flip a few pages. “They’ll probably outnumber us, and won’t be slowed down too much by the dead, so we’ll have to be clever.”

“Clever?” Roger and Francine exchanged glances.

“Smarter than they are, at any rate.” Peter frowned down at the plans, still flipping through the pages. “Let’s start here. We can wall off this entire hallway - make the stairway disappear entirely. We’ll still have access to the plumbing, and even if someone makes it this far? They’ll never know we’re here.”

“So we’ll have a place to hide. Then what?”

“Then we’ll make a new plan.” Peter let Francine take the binder. “For now, hiding, getting ourselves an armory and settling in. But let’s take care of the first two.”

“How’re you planning on building anything when the shopping mall is still full of those - those _things_?”

“A good question,” but Roger was already grinning widely. “One I’m very interested in hearing the answer to.”

“First,” Peter responded, his answering smile not quite as wide, “first we clean house.”

**

“It is a damn shame we lost Stephen.” Peter fended off a swat from Roger. “No, that wasn’t a dig. We could’ve used that helicopter right about now. If we want to keep those creatures from eventually swarming their way in, we’ll need to block off the entrances.”

“So?” Francine pulled her coat closely around herself, trying to ignore the cold wind as it tugged at her hair and slipped down the back of her neck.

The view from the roof wasn’t encouraging. There were more of the walking dead every day, all of them moving slowly and haltingly toward the shopping mall. They staggered and shuffled in uneven lines, occasionally colliding and both shambling away in an entirely new direction until they slowly straightened themselves out. The parking lot stretched away like a desert, bare of cover or any way of making progress without alerting enough of the dead to cause a swarm.

“So, there’s a trucking company depot just at the crest of that hill.” Roger grinned at her.

“ _That_ hill? That has to be two, three miles from here.”

“Hence my comment about our dearly departed pilot. We could’ve hitched a ride, moved a few of those trucks back here. Parked ‘em right in front of those entrances.” Peter stubbed out the remains of his cigarillo and sighed. 

Roger snagged the binoculars and took a look for himself. “Man, that would’ve been a great idea. Unfortunately, that’s about as easy to reach as the moon - at least on foot.”

“Does it have to be on foot?” Francine had chosen a seat on the edge of the roof and was experimenting with the sight on the rifle they’d given her.

“Unless you have another helicopter pilot in your other purse?” Peter turned to brace himself against the edge, raising an eyebrow at her.

“No - but I have working eyes.”

Roger peered at her through the binoculars. “Do tell.”

“The cars.”

Both men turned, looking down at the empty parking lot with its few smashed and abandoned wrecks. “Cars. As in, cars that might actually run? Are you delusional, Francine?”

“I’m not seeing imaginary vehicles, if that’s what you mean.” She lowered the rifle and turned to face them. “The cars in the mall.”

“ _In_ the mall?”

**

“I can’t believe we missed those.” 

Amidst the awkwardly stumbling dead, there were no less than three brand new cars on somewhat macabre display. They watched as one of the creatures tripped on the ornamental plants surrounding the nearest display and sprawled against the hood.

“I can’t say much for the show models,” Roger said. “Besides, we were somewhat distracted.”

Francine was kind enough not to comment on their observational skills, distraction or no. “Why not take one of those? Drive it out and to the depot? I mean, they had to drive them _in_ , right?”

“Through the loading dock, probably.” Peter frowned. “We’ll have to get to the dock first, open the doors, come back, create a distraction up here, and then make a run for the car. Do you think the keys are in it?”

“I can start anything with a motor,” Roger said. “The trick will be to get the doors open - and then closed again behind us. No sense letting any more of those things in here.”

“Brings the property values down,” Peter agreed, dryly.

“You two are crazy. Still crazy. Crazier.” Francine stared out at the dead people, milling slowly around cars and, closer to, the glassed entrance to the department store. “You want to go out there how many times?”

The slowly moving figures reminded her of nothing so much as wind-up toys, set loose to move randomly about until the springs released all their energy. 

“If we’re going to be stuck here, I’d rather we were the only occupants, wouldn’t you?” Roger was grinning again, rifle in one hand. “C’mon, Francine. You wanted a gun.”

“I also wanted to learn how to _use_ it,” she said. “This isn’t what I had in mind and you know it.”

“You wanted to be an equal partner,” Peter said. “But we’re not gonna ask you to charge out there, guns a blazing. Being a partner sometimes means being the one left behind to guard the way out. If we do this right, you won’t need to use that rifle, but you _will_ need to let us out - and back in.”

“Maybe in a hurry.” Despite the serious tone, Roger was still grinning. “You can do it, Francine. Stephen always said you were the level-headed one.”

His grin faded a bit with the words as Francine’s grip on her rifle tightened. 

“You can do it.” Peter grabbed Roger’s shoulder and turned him toward the door. “And if you’re lucky, Mr. Tactful, she won’t leave you to be eaten.”

“I wouldn’t.”

He paused, looking back at her. “No. I don’t believe you would.” He held out the huge ring of keys for her to take. “These’re your responsibility now. First thing we have to do - create a diversion that’ll keep them away from the loading bay doors.”

They settled, eventually, on a series of alarm clocks. Roger set eighteen of them, alarms five minutes apart, against the locked barrier of each of six stores as far from the loading bay as possible.

“The sound will attract them, and as each alarm shuts off, the next will start up just a minute or two later. They’ll move from store to store and back again.” Peter had gotten a pistol for Francine to go with the rifle, and was setting one of the walkie-talkies. 

“Hopefully.” Francine glanced at the keys in her hand. “And I can hide in the perfume store by the loading docks until it’s time to let you back in.”

“That’s the plan.” Peter frowned up at her. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m under a lot of stress.” Francine didn’t meet his eyes, instead sorting through the keys. “That’s… 7A, right?”

“Right. You sure you’re not coming down with something?”

She did meet his eyes then, expression set. “Positive.”

He didn’t believe her, and she knew it. She also knew that this was not the time for a confrontation, and so did he.

“So. The alarms start going off. We get the car. You open the doors, we go through. You close the doors, hide in the perfume place. We get five of those suckers, that’s -”

“Four round trips, if you leave the final truck blocking the loading docks.” Francine frowned at him. “I can count.”

“Four, at about ten minutes per trip, not counting time spent with the hotwire. Even if the alarms run out, they should stay clustered at that end for at least a little while.”

“You’ll bring an entire crowd along behind you.”

Peter smiled, faintly. “We will. But we’ll be moving faster.”

“Much faster.” Roger joined them by the already unlocked door, still breathing hard from his run. “The first one will go off any second now. It takes, what, two minutes to get to the loading docks from here?”

“More or less.” Francine was looking at her rifle. “You have to be careful. If you don’t get back, I may not be able to get back across the shopping mall on my own. I haven’t exactly had any lessons with this thing.”

“We’ve all got to be careful. Three is harder than four. Two… well, two is going to be difficult.”

Roger snorted. “You worry too much. This’ll be a cakewalk.”

“If you take any stupid risks, I won’t forgive you.” Francine’s voice was flat. “Stephen is gone. You _owe_ it to me not to let that happen again.”

“Owe -” Roger turned to her, temper raised - and stopped dead at the look on her face.

“I’m pregnant.” Her voice remained flat and even. “Eventually, I won’t be able to run fast enough to get away. Partners. I watch your back - and you watch mine.”

“Preg -” Roger was destined not to finish a single sentence as Peter placed one hand over Roger’s mouth.

“Now,” he declared softly, “is not the time. But you’re right, Francine. That does affect all of us, and we’re going to have to talk about it when we get back.”

“When you get back.”

“But -” Roger managed, ducking away from Peter’s hand.

“They’re moving. Time to go.” Peter propelled Roger toward the door, and the shorter man was forced to shove it open or be pressed up against it. 

Francine locked the door as the men kept a wary eye out for more of the dead, and all three of them sprinted away, Francine toward the loading docks and Peter and Roger toward the closest car.

“Doors’re locked.”

“Didn’t want any teenagers messing around.” Peter glanced around. The tailgate of the car was propped open invitingly to display the ‘roomy interior’. “In through the trunk?”

“I’m on it.”

The dead creatures were still all moving toward the far end of the mall, and there was some cover afforded by the trees and plants. Peter crouched behind one of the benches nestled amongst the greenery and kept an eye out as Roger slid into the back of the car.

“How long is this going to take?”

“A minute or two. I haven’t boosted a car since I was a stupid teenaged kid.”

“Last week, then?”

“Ha ha.” Roger disappeared beneath the dash, mostly. “Do you think Francine will be okay?”

“Now is _not_ the time.”

The car started up, making a surprising amount of noise, despite the ever present music playing through the speakers throughout the building. The few dead still in the vicinity turned as if pulled by strings.

“That’s torn it. Let’s go!” As Roger pulled himself upright and unlocked the doors, Peter was already pulling at the handle. “Come on, come on.”

“Francine, we’re on our way!”

**

Francine had been forced to dodge her way through several small groups of the dead, and had circled around to keep them from catching up with her at the loading dock before Roger got the car started.

“Give me a minute.” She was already almost out of breath. “I’ve got about six of them trailing me. Can you take care of them while I open the door?”

“We’ll be there in a minute,” Roger’s voice promised her. “You just have to get the door. We’ll cover you.”

She had to believe him, turning again and ducking past a hulking man in a plaid shirt. He managed to hook his fingers into her hair, but she pulled away. Putting on a burst of speed, she headed directly for the doors. 

“There are some waiting on the other side!”

“We’re ready for them. You get those doors open.”

Francine didn’t look back, sprinting for the doors, the correct key already chosen and held tightly away from the others. She didn’t bother to slow, crashing into the door where it met the wall and letting it take the impact. She fumbled with the key for a moment, getting it into the lock and turning.

“To your right, Francine! Go!”

She left the keys dangling from the lock and dodged to the right, making for the nearest door. There were dead on the other side, but she had to trust in Roger and Peter - and she hit the leftmost door with her full weight, forcing it to slide open. 

Gunshots and the crack and ricochet of bullets had her ducking, but she kept pushing. The door was sliding quickly enough, given her momentum, but it left her side and back fully exposed to the dead on the other side.

“Dodge, Francine! Right again!”

She threw herself away from the doors, nearly deafened by the repeated gunfire, and the small car shot past her, impacting with the waiting creatures in a series of sickening squishes and crunches.

Trying very hard to hold onto her meagre breakfast, Francine pulled herself to her feet. It was hard not to look back at the dead she knew were still slowly, patiently pursuing her. She concentrated on the door. She had to get it closed before any more got _in_.

The task proved harder than it had seemed. Her slight weight had been enough, at full speed, to get it moving, but the tracks were now gummed with bits of the dead, and the gooey remnants made it hard for her to get enough traction to push. She didn’t look up, didn’t look around; didn’t dare. Her job was to get the door closed and locked - and survive until the dead attracted by the noise were drawn away again by the alarms.

It felt like hours before she managed to get the door closed and the keys twisted again in the lock. She left them there, unslinging her rifle and spinning around -

\- to discover nothing left of the pursuing creatures but sprawled bodies. She could hear movement, further down the way; more of the dead, attracted by all the noise.

Hands shaking, now with relief, she freed the second set of keys from her belt and fled to the perfume shop.

**

“Do you think she’ll be okay?”

Peter gave him a sardonic look. “I’ve known her, what, three days? I’d think you’d be the better judge.”

Roger drove the same way he did everything else, slightly reckless and fully engaged. He spun around a pair of the creatures, putting the lightweight (and somewhat dented) vehicle into a fishtail. The handling was not helped by their earlier impact with the dead at the loading docks. The little car wasn’t meant to take that sort of abuse. Roger didn’t let it bother him, concentrating on the thought.

“I dunno. Stephen was my friend, but Francine - I mean, I _knew_ her, but she and Stephen were…. I’m not even sure what they were. They talked about marriage once. Well, she talked and he put her off.” He shrugged, avoiding more damage to the car more than the creature in their path, and left the parking lot for the road. “They were serious. Well, most of the time. I didn’t know she was pregnant. I’m not sure if Stephen knew either. I do know his death hit her hard, and she hasn’t had any time to deal with it.”

“If we’re not careful,” with a white-knuckled grip on the dashboard, “she won’t ever have the time to deal with it.”

Roger shot him a sideways look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we need to concentrate on the goal here, and don’t give me that look. I’ve only know you a few hours longer than I’ve known Francine and even I can tell that you’re a thrill junkie.”

“So’re you, and what’s wrong with enjoying yourself in a tense situation?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it, if you can concentrate on getting the job done _first_ and chasing an adrenaline high _second_.”

“That sounds like an accusation.” They were approaching the truck depot and Roger slowed slightly, scowling.

“It’s not. But if either of us end up dead, it’s fairly certain the other won’t make it back there - and Francine’s not going to last long on her own.” Peter scowled right back. “And neither would either of us. So we’re going to concentrate on moving the trucks, right?”

Roger’s scowl hadn’t faded. “Right.”

There was silence as he pulled the car to a stop beside a large Mack Truck. Roger broke it finally, heaving a sigh. “You know how to suck the fun out of _everything_ , you know that?”

“Look on the bright side.” As Peter finally let go of the dash to reach over and punch him lightly on the shoulder. “Once we get the entrances blocked, we can lock all the doors and clean house properly.”

Roger’s scowl faded into a bright smile. “Hunting time.”

“Once we get back.”

“Fine. Worrywart.”

**

Time _crawled_ past. There was a clock, nestled picturesquely amongst the ornately decorated and improbably colored bottles of perfume, but Francine refused to look at it. Sitting on the floor behind the only non-glass counter in the tiny shop, she kept her focus on the walkie-talkie between her hands, counting time by the far off echoes of the various alarm clocks.

The ever-present music tinkled and burbled cheerfully as she stared at the walkie-talkie, willing it to say something, _anything_. She had her rifle across her knees, and she wondered if she’d really be able to handle it if she had to. She had no doubt that she could fire it, no doubt that she would. Peter had given her some very basic instructions, a handful of ammo and the unwelcome news that it would kick like a mule if she didn’t hold it correctly, and possibly even if she did.

The wondering took her mind off what was going on outside, whatever that was, and the fear that Peter and Roger had never made it out of the parking lot. Every time she found herself certain that they were never coming back, the distant ringing of another alarm told her that her mind was playing tricks on her, that their time hadn’t yet run out.

“Hey, Francine!”

She flinched, nearly dropping the walkie-talkie. “Roger?”

“We’ll be back in… about a minute and a half. You ready?”

She scrambled to her feet, slinging the rifle awkwardly over her shoulder and nearly taking out an entire, outrageously expensive display of fragrances. “I’m on my way.”

The main area of the shopping mall still appeared to be occupied only by scattered corpses, the dead attracted by the noise having been again drawn away by the alarms, and she unlocked the gate and slipped beneath it. It made a certain amount of noise, but by then she could hear the heavy sound of the truck engine. There were dead again clustered up against the far side of the door, but their attention had been drawn by the truck, and they began to move away.

She grabbed the keys, turning them to unlock the door. “Ready when you are!”

The truck didn’t slow much, grinding the dead before the door into so much meat as it skidded to a halt. She heard the far door open and the sound of gun shots.

“Now, Francine!” 

She pushed the door again, using her full weight, and it began to slowly, grudgingly slide open. A moment later, a second pair of hands joined her, shoving as hard as they could.

“A perfect ten,” Roger sang out, sliding through the opening beneath Francine’s arms. “Move it, Francine. Let the big guy handle it.”

Francine ducked away, letting Peter jump through the opening and drag the door closed again. Her hands were shaking again as she turned the keys for the last time, pulling them free. This time, the shaking caused by relief.

“Come on. We want to get undercover before those alarms stop singing.” Peter grinned at Francine, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Nicely done.”

“Hey, what about me?”

“You did all right, little man.” Peter dodged a mock-punch from Roger. “Let’s go. Dinner’s on me.”

**

Dinner turned out to be actual steaks, grilled over a tiny portable camp stove and, in something of an anti-climax, instant mashed potatoes.

“Best I can do, for the moment, but this place has some big walk-in coolers downstairs, _full_ of some really amazing food.” 

It lacked something, eaten in their barren storeroom stronghold, on styrofoam plates with plastic forks and knives. The bare, electric bulbs gave a stark look to everything, and the sharp angles of the stacked supplies cast dark shadows.

“It feels cold.” Francine was huddled into a coat they’d picked up on that first, disastrous run. “Not chilly… just cold.”

“Probably a reaction to all that adrenaline.” Roger had a mouth full of steak, but that didn’t keep him from mumbling through it. “You’ve been through a lot these past few days.”

“Don’t mean she’s wrong.” Peter shrugged. “This place isn’t exactly homey. Tomorrow we’ll take a look at sealing the doors, clearing out the main area of the mall. Then we’ll be able to investigate the stores - get some of the basic comforts up in here.”

“How do you plan to seal the doors?”

“Solder, probably. Or just melt the locks. There’s torches of all kinds down in home and hardware.” Roger was still talking with his mouth full, putting away enough food for someone Peter’s size and not showing any sign of slowing down. “Got everything we need for that false wall, too. We should be nice and secure inside a week or so.”

Peter gave him a sardonic look. “And then we’ll find a cure for this entire business and go waltzing off into the sunset?”

“That might take at least a month. Let me think on it.”

Francine huddled further into the coat. “I don’t know how you can joke about it.”

Roger swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “Stephen was my friend, Francine. This is how I deal with… stress. With grief. With anger. I laugh. I have to.”

She shrugged, looking away. “I’m not grieving for Stephen. No, I _am_. But… it’s like I don’t have any more room for grief or horror. I - I’m full. I can’t really even cry for him, not with all the others. It wouldn’t be… fair, I suppose.”

“Did you love him?” Not the most tactful of questions, and it hung in the air for a long, uncomfortable minute. Roger glared at Peter, who just raised his eyebrows.

Francine did not look up. “Sometimes. I loved him. He loved me. It just wasn’t always at the same time. It’s - it _was_ complicated.”

“Love often is, like life in general.” Peter rose to his feet. “There’s a box of blankets here, somewhere.” They’d disposed of the one with Stephen’s blood on it, along with the body of the Hare Krishna who’d managed to get as far as their hide-away. “Let’s start with getting you warmer, and then you should probably sleep.”

“Earlier, you said someone should always be on watch.” Francine glanced up, her eyes dry despite the unhappiness still clear in her voice.

“I did, but first watch doesn’t have to be you. If you want, I’ll wake you when I go to sleep. You can watch then.”

“Get some sleep, Francine.” Roger had another mouth full of potatoes, but managed to mumble through them clearly enough. “We’ll worry about being partners in the morning.”

She scowled at him, but accepted the blanket Peter produced for her, wrapping it around herself. “Do you promise to wake me?”

“I promise. We’ll all get some sleep and look at this fresh in the morning.”

**

Peter was good as his word, gently shaking Francine awake what felt like mere moments after she’d closed her eyes. He’d turned the utility light toward the corner, so the harsh brightness was dulled to a reflected glow. 

“Someday, I want a real night’s sleep again.”

He gave her a brief smile. “I’d settle for something more comfortable than a floor, myself. Here.” He handed her the pistol she’d been carrying the previous afternoon. “If you hear anything, wake Roger first. The gun is a last resort only. Until we have this place walled off, we don’t really want any loud noises up here.”

She nodded, unwrapping herself from the blanket and trading it for the pistol.

“Are you okay? Are you going to be able to do this?” He glanced down at her stomach, still almost completely flat.

“I don’t know yet.” Francine carefully opened the pistol, checking to make certain it was fully loaded. That had been her other, brief lesson yesterday, and she glanced up to see Peter nodding approvingly. “I’ll let you know when I do.”

“Are you sure you want to bring a baby into all this?” Peter’s voice was gentle, if steady, as he wrapped himself in the blanket.

She paused for a long moment, hearing the real question beneath the tactful choice of words. “Why not? Life has to go on, one way or another, or all we’ll be left with are those - those things out there,” Francine said. 

“And if, or when, you need medical attention?” That was Roger’s sleepy contribution from the other side of a pile of boxes. “Then what do we do?”

“I’ll worry about it when the time comes. This is _my_ baby, and it’ll be my decision.” She clasped both hands around the grip of the pistol, as if daring them to object.

“It’ll be _our_ baby when it’s born,” Peter pointed out. “Partners, remember? A baby will change everything.”

“Better get some extra books when get as far as the bookstore,” Roger offered, yawning. “Maybe Dr. Spock.”

“Go to sleep.” Francine’s voice was still tight. “I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

“My sister had a whole library,” Roger mumbled, rolling over. A moment later, his mumbles trailed away.

“We need to worry about these things _before_ they come.” Peter stretched out on the floor, yawning himself. “Think about it, Francine. You’ve got a few hours.”

“I’ll talk about it when I’m ready.”

“You do that.”

**

Breakfast was spam and leftover mashed potatoes. They were a lot less appetizing than they had been the evening before.

“We’ll have to get an electric stove up here,” Roger said. “And any furniture before we put up that wall.”

“Moving furniture up those stairs will be all kinds of fun,” Peter observed dryly. “Let’s start the morning by getting some fresh clothes and washing up. Then we’ll figure out how to seal the outside doors - and find the ones that are open.”

“Open?”

“The dead had to get in somehow,” Francine pointed out. “There are no cars outside, and all the stores were locked up, the electricity off. Someone closed this place up, but they got in anyhow. There has to be an open door somewhere. It could be one of the four main entrances, but it’s probably an employee entrance that wasn’t locked or closed properly.”

“We’ll pick up some clothes, you take a look at the blueprints, count all the exterior doors and figure out where they are. We’ll have to visit them all.” Peter made a face. “Once they’re all sealed up, we can deal with the ones inside.”

“We’ll have to check each store,” Roger pointed out. “Once the main areas are clear.” He carefully didn’t remind anyone that an unexpected creature in the apparently sealed department store was how they’d lost Stephen.

“Once the main areas are clear, we’ll check the stores one at a time.” Peter shrugged. “We can take our time. The gates will keep any strays in as surely as it keeps them out.”

“Bathrooms, employee lounges, storage rooms.” Francine had pulled open the binder and was flipping slowly through the maps. “That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“One thing at a time. Clean clothes, some washing up, and closing all the doors. That’s today’s plan.”

Roger grinned. “First stop, the nearest department store. You hit clothing, I’ll hit hardware, and Francine can have a list of doors and locations by the time we get back.”

Francine frowned at them, but Peter held up a hand. “Tomorrow, you get shooting lessons. Today, I’ll bring you a bat and maybe some more flares. Can you handle a bat?”

“I belonged to the station softball team,” Francine retorted. “I can swing a bat.”

“Then you’ll carry the pistol for medium-range, and don’t fire till they’re close enough to count their teeth. Those things have shit for accuracy any further than that. Drop the pistol and go for the bat just before they’re in arm’s reach. That should keep you safe enough as long as there’s just a few.” Peter slung the rifle over one shoulder. “No one goes anywhere alone, all right? We all need someone to watch our back. Reality is, right now, we’ll move a lot faster without you, Francine.”

“We’ll need three for the doors,” Roger pointed out, zipping up his uniform. “So we’re not putting you off, Francine. You just don’t have the skills you need to go out looting.”

“Yet.”

Both men paused, taking in the set of her jaw and the determined light in her eyes.

“Yet.”

**

It was strange to use the lady’s room to wash up, but the last few days at the television station had made it familiar enough that she didn’t waste any time over it. With Roger in the hallway keeping watch, she hastily made use of the hand soap and the thankfully warm water.

The door was propped open a foot or so to allow conversation with the one standing watch, and she asked, “Do you think we could work on the Gimbels store once the mall is closed up? They have an employee lounge with showers.”

“I could use a shower, but starting with a department store is ambitious. We’ll have to check every corner to make sure there aren’t any strays.” Roger grimaced, even though Francine couldn’t see him. “On the other hand, they’ve got a really fancy grocery in there, and I’m starting to agree with you on the Spam front.”

Peter’s voice floated faintly from the farthest stall, where he was changing. “Also a good place for furniture, but I’m not sure we need to lug it all the way across the mall. What about Penney’s?”

“No showers.” Francine grimaced at herself in the mirror. “I want a comb.”

“We’ll do some proper shopping once the doors are locked. It’s going to be a rough few days,” Roger said. “Furniture can wait.”

“Right now, I’d settle for some aspirin.” Peter ducked out of the stall, moving past Francine to change places with Roger. “Doesn’t Gimbels have books?”

“Yes, but I think Penneys does as well.” Francine emerged a moment or two later, still struggling to bring order to her hair. “How are we going to do this?”

“Hardware first, then we’re going to steal another car.” Peter gave her a smile. “If you want to drive and keep a look-out, Roger and I will seal the main doors, and then we’ll start searching for the employee entrances. Once we’re all closed up, you can drive and Roger and I will clean out the dead in the main areas.”

“Yippee!” came Roger’s somewhat muffled contribution.

“I’ve never driven inside a mall, but I think I can handle it.” Francine gave up on her hair as a lost cause. “I think I’ve got the layout down, at least as far as the main areas. We’ll want the binder for the employee entrances.”

“Think it’ll fit in the glovebox?”

She made a face at him. “I want one set of the keys. Permanently.”

He eyed her thoughtfully. “All right. One set. Roger and I can share the other.”

“All set!” Roger swung out of the bathroom, clad in a loud, print shirt and black slacks. “How do I look?”

“Terrible,” was Peter’s response. “Are we ready?”

Hiding a smile at Roger’s indignant response, Francine nodded. “Ready.”

**

There was a special strangeness in finding familiarity in the act of baiting the dead to cluster at one end of the shopping mall, this time with a display of the wind-up toys they reminded Francine so strongly of. It took almost an hour before the main area of the shopping mall in front of the Penney’s was clear enough to give them the window Peter wanted.

As Francine locked the door behind them, Roger was already halfway through the decorative plants, vaulting the flimsy fence and shoving aside the mannequin meant to be displaying the car. It was almost routine, in a peculiar way.

The car started with a quiet rumble, and Roger slid into the passenger seat as Francine handed him her rifle. She settled behind the steering wheel as Peter leaned in through the open trunk. “That’s got the attention of a few of them. Go, Francine! Loading bay first!”

The polished floor of the shopping mall had less traction than Francine was expecting, and they slid around the first corner instead of turning. Roger was already laughing as he rolled down the window, leaning out to fire a shot at the slowly pursuing dead. There was another obstacle in the form of the bodies left from the day before, but she pulled to a decent stop even as Peter leaped from the back of the car, heading straight for the doors, igniting a torch as he went. “Come on, Roger, keys!”

Francine turned the car, pulling out her pistol as she watched the slowly moving creatures round the corner and start slowly and erratically toward the car.

It went fairly quickly, flipping catches, turning keys and providing enough heat at each latching point that the doors would not be opening again - at least not easily.

“Guys?” The dead were closer now, staggering along in an odd counterpoint to the arrhythmic thumping of of the ones outside, crammed into the narrow space between the truck and the doors. “Guys!”

“Almost got it!” 

Roger ran back to the car, bracing his rifle on the roof. “This might get loud.”

Five of the creatures fell to his shots before Peter flung himself into the trunk, bracing one foot against the lip. “Alarms are set! To the main entrance, Charles.”

“I’m not your chauffeur,” Francine retorted, putting the car back into gear. “I don’t have the right hat.”

Roger was laughing again as he slid into the car. “Floor it, Francine! Let’s test this thing out!”

“And possibly crash into the toy store. No, thank you.”

They careened through the mall as Francine slowly got the hang of driving on a slicker surface. Gunshots rang out the entire time, picking off the occasional creature and drawing the attention of the rest.

By their third stop, there was quite a crowd stumbling along in their wake, and Francine watched them come, hands slowly tightening on the steering wheel as they drew closer.

“Come on out, Francine.” Roger arrived at her side of the car with a flashy skid, gun brandished above his head. He reached into the back and pulled out her rifle. “Time for some target practice. We’ve got about… three minutes. You should be able to at least wing a few.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Nope. Let’s go.”

Feeling exposed, she got out of the car and took the rifle. “Lesson one. Sighting and range.” Roger watched as she raised the rifle. “Not like that, look - watch me.”

By the time Peter arrived back at the car, keys jingling, there were six new bodies. Francine had hit two of them, one in the leg and one in the chest.

“You weren’t kidding about this thing kicking like a mule.”

“I never kid about rifles.” Peter took a few careful shots of his own. “We’re going to have to drive right through them. You ready for that?”

“Do I have a choice?” Francine’s rifle went into the back of the car. “Two more to go.”

“And then the fun begins.”

“Roger, you’re a homicidal maniac.”

“I’m not. Those aren’t humans, at least not anymore. Ergo, I’m not homicidal.”

Peter gave a soft snort of laughter. “I’m not so sure of your logic there.”

“I don’t care. Get in, would you?”

**

After speaking so blithely of ‘cleaning up’, the entire grim business of hunting the dead in the main halls took almost four hours. By the end, Francine’s aim was still nothing to write home about, but she could at least hit what she aimed at. Not that she wanted to.

“Ice packs. I want ice packs.”

“So do I,” Roger admitted, rubbing his own shoulder. “That… wow, that took a while.”

Peter snorted, looking over the second floor railing at the bodies sprawled below. “And we’re not through yet. We’ll have to do another, more careful sweep tomorrow, check all the displays and the bushes and the fountains again. Then there are the individual stor -”

“Please shut up. I need a moment or two of encouragement before getting all depressed again.” Francine leaned on the railing. “It… feels more open now.”

“Emptier, anyway.” Roger wrinkled his nose. “Until it starts to smell.”

“Smell?” Francine glanced down again, puzzled. “Oh.”

“They’re going to rot,” Peter agreed. “Well, we’ll just have to clean up after ourselves. One of the walk-in coolers?”

“I’m not eating anything that’s stored with _them_ ,” Francine declared flatly. “No matter how hungry I get.”

“Agreed. We can move most of the food into another cooler,” Roger said. “But that’s a project for tomorrow. Also mopping up all the blood.”

“Fun for the whole family.” Francine turned and slid to sit on the floor, back pressed to the railing. “We’re really going to do this, aren’t we?”

“We really are.” Peter smiled down at her. “In a few days, maybe a week, it’ll start to feel like home.”

“That’ll be the day.”

“Be quiet, Roger.” Francine closed her eyes and took a slow breath, feeling something clenched tight inside slowly begin to relax. “We can do this.”

“Yes. We can.”

**

It took almost two weeks to be certain they’d found every employee entrance, explored every nook and cranny, peered under and behind every floor display and counter. Roger made a game of it, keeping score for every creature they found inside the closed gates (only six), every odd item stowed behind or under something (‘Shoplifters, stashing for later’ was Peter’s diagnosis), and double points for every really useful or desired item stumbled upon during the search.

Peter won, though no one had really been playing save Roger, and Francine was only six points behind. “You’d’ve had a higher score if you hadn’t been busy counting points,” she said, as Roger bemoaned the unfairness of it all.

“You have to enjoy life,” he retorted. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Maybe now we can enjoy things like beds, showers and properly cooked food?” Francine had been making a list, adding to it as they explored. She handed it to Roger. “Furniture first. Real beds, that stove you’ve been promising me - I’m tired of eating whatever we can grill over the camp stove. I want real food.”

“Some chairs to sit on, instead of boxes or the floor - she has a point, Roger.”

“You two take the fun out of _everything_.” He was smiling as he said it. “All right. Shopping it is. Can I paint my room orange?”

“No.”

“But _Mooom_.”

Francine struggled with a smile. “Did you do your homework?”

Peter took the list, and left them squabbling cheerfully as he made a few additions of his own. When the mock argument wound down, he said, “You two go ahead and argue over the furniture. I’m going to get supplies for that wall, so it’s ready to go up as soon as the furniture is in - and Francine gets to help us carry everything up those damn stairs.”

Francine made a face. “Partners?”

“Partners.”

**

“Red.”

“Orange.”

“ _Red_.”

“ _Orange_.”

Peter ignored them both, magnificently uncaring as to the color of the sofa Francine wanted for their ‘living room’. There were color swatches stuck to everything, now that all the civilian defense supplies had been hauled downstairs and stacked against the walls of the hallway. Francine and Roger had been entertaining themselves arguing about the color of everything from the walls to the rugs to the lamp shades, something Peter found ridiculous.

“It’s all plugged into heavy-duty extension cords anyway. It’s not like we have wall sockets, so why argue about it?”

He’d eventually given it up as something he just did not understand. He left them to it, focusing instead on the radios and the television, searching for something beyond a test pattern or simple static.

When he finally found a station, it was fairly grim listening. Francine and Roger’s argument slowly petered out as they drifted over to listen.

“It’s still spreading.” Francine sank slowly to sit in one of their new chairs. “Still.”

“Doesn’t sound like there’s anywhere safe left.” Roger leaned against the back of her chair, frowning. “Did he really just suggest a nuclear strike on the _cities_?”

“It won’t happen.” Peter scowled at the radio. “They’ll protest and protest, just like they did burning all the bodies, until there’s no one left to actually carry through.”

“ - we’re never going to leave this place, are we?”

Both men turned to look at Francine, surprised. “This is just a place to hole up,” Roger said. He waved a hand. “Just until things… calm down.”

“They’re not going to calm down,” she said, annoyed. “This isn’t going to just go away.”

“No one’s saying that,” as Peter shot an aggravated look at Roger. Roger sensibly closed his mouth, swallowing whatever retort had been on the way. “This is a place to hide until we can figure out a place that might be safer.”

“Safer?”

“Or closer to medical help.” Roger flapped one hand at Peter. “Come on. I don’t know how to deliver a baby, _you_ don’t know how to deliver a baby, and that’s if there are no complications. All the books in the world,” jabbing one finger at the lone bookshelf, crammed with prenatal care manuals and two slim books on flying, “aren’t going to make that any easier… and the helicopter isn’t looking very likely either.”

“I think we could manage the helicopter, at least if we keep it close enough to the ground we won’t kill ourselves if we lose control - but that means experimentation, managing to fly well enough that we can get to some fuel, and high and fast enough that the dead won’t be able to catch up with us.” Peter rolled his eyes. “None of which are very likely. It’s all a crap shoot.”

“We could take the car,” ignoring the dents and rough growl the engine made after what they’d put it through, running into and over so many of the dead, “head out and get ourselves a truck, load it up, and hit the road.”

“That doesn’t sound at _all_ dangerous,” Francine said. “And we’re back to needing a reliable fuel -”

“There are pumps at the truck station. We could just load up on gas and -”

“There are more dead outside every day. We’d have to move the truck, open the doors, leave, come back, load the truck - all without getting ourselves killed. That’s too many risks.” Peter shook his head. “We’ll call that Plan C.”

“Then what’s Plan A?” Francine asked.

“We’re going to have to work on that.”

**

Their small living quarters, now beautifully decorated with all the latest interior design trends (mostly beige with red and green accents) and state of the art kitchen stayed mostly abandoned, save for meals and sleeping. Despite how beautifully it had been decorated, and the live plants that flourished beneath the skylights, it retained a feeling of _smallness_ , of being entrenched; trapped. The lack of windows made it worse, somehow, despite Francine’s attempts to create the illusion of some with carefully placed curtains.

Within the apartment, the threat outside felt very real and immediate. The window-dressing of a normal life was thin and unsteady, the illusion wearing at the corners with every glimpse of the guns mounted on the walls, resting in an umbrella stand by the door, worn on the hip at all times -

\- the shooting lessons may have helped Francine’s peace of mind in one direction, but kept her from relaxing with their constant reminder of the fragility of their new lives.

An abandoned shopping mall holds endless distractions. 

It took weeks for the sense of freedom to wear off, the excitement of being able to simply wander from store to store and take whatever attracted your attention. Toys, records, games, puzzles, good food, beautiful clothes, sporting goods, fabulous jewelry, and all sorts of strange and wonderful things. The skating rink alone was good for hours of distraction

“It’s surreal, like a fever dream,” Francine said.

She and Peter were leaning on the second floor railings, watching Roger ride a bicycle around and around the fountains below. He’d gone from sailing at high speeds with his feet off the pedals to attempting to do the same with both feet propped on the handle bars.

“Like a nightmare.”

“No. It’s… a nightmare makes you afraid. The danger here,” as she watched Roger nearly careen into one of the fountains, “is that sometimes I’m not afraid. Sometimes I _forget_ … and then reality comes crashing in.”

“Reality?”

“Stephen is dead. My parents are probably dead. Everyone I ever knew, save Roger, might be wandering around somewhere right now, trying to mow the lawn or hang laundry or get to work. Dead.” She shivered. “It seems so _immense_ , so inevitable, and the memory is so sudden.”

“That’s what life is.” Peter turned, propping one hip against the railing. “This is just an extreme. Sooner or later, things will have to reach some kind of equilibrium.”

“Yes, but I don’t think it’ll be in our favor.” Francine winced as Roger managed to tip himself over into one of the fountains after all, landing with a splash and a whoop. “I envy Roger, I think. He manages to throw himself into everything all at once.”

“I thought you called him a homicidal maniac?”

“In this situation, that’s become something of a plus.” Francine wrinkled her nose. “The television’s still only showing emergency status images and the occasional public service announcement, each more hysterical than the last. The radio’s giving us more static and less news… and I wake up at night, sometimes, wondering what’s really left out there.”

“Enough. People are wired to survive. There may not be many of them, but if there are enough people left to keep a television station on the air, there will be others, like us, holed up somewhere and waiting it out.”

“But that’s just it. We’re waiting. We’re not _doing_ anything. I don’t want to wait here, forever, feeling the walls closing in and waiting for the sound of glass breaking, or something stumbling around outside our door.” Francine scowled. “We have beautiful meals, and the best wine and more cigarettes than we’ll ever smoke. I’d have a wardrobe full of fur coats, if it were worth the effort to take them out of the stores. Our apartment here makes the one I shared with my sister look like trash… and it’s not real. We’re living in a dream.”

“It beats sleeping in a car, hoping none of those creatures think to break the windows with a rock.”

Francine shivered. “And there’s reality again. I should be happy. We’re as safe as it’s possible to be, I’m surrounded by luxury and everything I could want… but it’s a dream. A ridiculous, luxurious dream.”

Peter looked at her thoughtfully. “This is really upsetting you.”

“Yes. No. Maybe?” She shook her head. “I miss Stephen. Even when we were fighting, he was a part of my life. Since high school. I think - I think that I was used to having him there. I even miss the fighting.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Is that silly?”

“A little.” He slung an arm around her shoulder, offering her half of a hug. “But it’s natural. Now, if you want to see something silly?” He peered over his shoulder. “Roger’s decided to try riding his bike _in_ the fountain.”

“What?”

“It’s worth seeing.”

Wiping her eyes, though they were only slightly wet, she turned to peer through the railings. Below them, Roger had indeed pulled his bicycle into one of the larger fountains and was laboriously pedalling his way through the water.

“You don’t need Stephen to fight with,” Peter pointed out, laughing softly. “You’ve got Roger.”

“I suppose.” She pressed at her eyes again. “And who’ll you fight with?”

“I can always fight with you,” he offered. “Come on. I’ll start. I think those curtains you put up are hideous.”

Francine began to laugh, despite herself. She turned, leaning against him as she folded her legs beneath her, and they both watched Roger again tip himself into the water with a cheerful yodel.

**

“Hey, Francine.” Roger dropped onto the sofa beside her, scowling. “You shouldn’t be watching this stuff.”

She had to agree with him, watching the shambles of what had probably once been a very proper and organized attempt to keep people informed. It had deteriorated into name-calling almost ten minutes ago, but she couldn’t bring herself to shut it off. Not yet.

“It helps me to remember that there are still other people in the world.” She reached for the glass of wine on the coffee table, sitting incongruously beside a selection of vitamins. “To believe that maybe things aren’t as bad as I think.”

“Watching that?” Roger shook his head, shifting to put his feet on the table. “You used to work in television, Francine. You know better than to take anything they say on this sort of program seriously.”

Francine reached out to shove his booted feet off the table, well aware that he’d only done it to distract her from the tinny shouting being broadcast from the television. “Maybe. But _they_ believe it, and it makes me wonder.”

“Wonder? About what?” He put his boots back on the table, and let her shove them off again.

“About the rest of the world. We only hear snippets, bits and pieces. It’s like we’re living in one of those silly comedy programs where the world revolves around a single family and the only time anything outside intrudes is when it directly affects them.” She found her attention being drawn back to the television. “They stay isolated in their own little bubble, where the only things that matter are themselves. I never enjoyed that sort of show. It always made me a little sad.”

“So we’re the family in the bubble?”

She nodded, listening as the announcer finally managed to restore order.

“So we’re family now? Does that make you my sister, my girlfriend or -?”

“You’re the eccentric neighbor.” She smiled, the spell cast by the television temporarily broken. “The one forever borrowing the lawn mower and never bringing it back.”

He smiled back. “We make our own bubbles, Francine. You’re right, this one won’t last forever… but it’s not a bad world, just the three of us. Let’s make the most of what we’ve got.”

“That’s the secret, isn’t it?”

“Secret?”

She abandoned the television entirely, tuning out the attempts of the announcer to mediate between his guest and a rowdy studio audience. “To living. Instead of just surviving. We’ve just been… surviving. I want to live.”

“I think you lost me.”

Francine rose, reaching to shut off the television. “Just waiting here… going out into the shopping mall feels like visiting a mausoleum, or a museum full of exhibits of what _used_ to be. This is what life used to hold, wanting money or status symbols. It’s not what life is now. We’re like… animals in a zoo.”

“Too many metaphors, Francine. You’ve definitely lost me now.” Roger shook his head, still smiling, just a little. “But I think I can see what you’re driving at. It’s the difference between driving a car, and being a passenger in a stranger’s vehicle. You want to feel some kind of control over your life.”

“Maybe, but it’s more complicated than that.” She gestured at the room around them. “The shopping mall has started to feel too big, as if going out into all that space is, is -”

“Makes you feel exposed?” 

“Yes! As if I stay here too much longer, I won’t be able to leave it. As if it’s become our entire world, and venturing outside would be like shooting myself off into space - all vast and empty, stretching away forever, with nowhere to hide.”

Roger frowned up at her, reaching for the abandoned glass of wine. “You have surely got the worst case of cabin fever I’ve ever seen - and don’t look at me like that. I get it. Just because it’s cabin fever doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

“There’s nothing I can do about it, then?” Francine made a frustrated gesture. “I just have to go on feeling like I’m shrinking, and the world is shrinking with me?”

“No. We’ll think of something.” His broad, bright grin returned. “After all, I’m the eccentric neighbor. Isn’t it my job to think of wacky schemes?”

She smiled reluctantly, reaching to take the glass as he offered it to her. “Will this one make more sense than the blindfolded skating?”

“You just don’t know how to have fun, Francine.”

“I’m not the one who skated full tilt into the wall.”

“You’re mean. No wonder I never returned your lawn mower.” Roger frowned, following an earlier train of thought. “Do you know what a jump bag is, Francine?”

Francine blinked, searching her memory. “No, I don’t think so.”

“They were popular for a while in the 60s. Have a bag packed and ready to go in case the nukes came and you had to run to a fallout shelter. It’s a pretty basic concept. You have a bag with all the bare necessities, packed and ready to hand, so if things go bad -”

“You just have to grab it and run.” Francine bit her lip. “You think we should have those?”

“I think we should have a little more than that.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I think we should make a list of what we might need if we have to make a run for it, pack it all up, and put most of it in the helicopter. Maybe fill the trunk of that last car downstairs with a duplicate kit. Then, if something happens?”

“Then we’re ready.” Francine was already rising, heading for a notepad and a pen. “That’s a good idea, Roger.”

“Forgive me for the lawn mower?”

“Never.”

**

“At least she’s stopped watching the television. I was starting to worry.” Peter had brought home a new set of records and was flipping through them, attempting to decide on some music. 

“Do you think it’s because she’s, you know, pregnant?” Roger made a gesture indicating Francine’s now visibly rounded stomach. “My sister said and did some very strange things before my niece was born.”

“Maybe. That doesn’t make her wrong.” Peter discarded one of the albums, placing it with several others on a shelf below the hi-fi. “I’ve been feeling it myself. Going out there leaves you feeling exposed, like all that space means someone’s watching you.”

“Am I the only one here not suffering from some sort of existential crisis? Because we do not have enough liquor for that.” Roger peered over his shoulder, reaching for one of the albums only to have his fingers gently slapped away. 

“Existential crisis. That’s a pretty good description. Francine nailed it on the head, there. It does feel like all we’re doing is existing, going through the motions for an invisible audience - complete with laugh track.” Peter finally selected an album and pulled free the record. “Maybe it’s time we took a look at the helicopter.”

“You really think we could fly it?”

“I’m more worried about landing. Preferably in one piece.”

**

“Jigsaw puzzles?”

“Not even if it were the only way to escape this place.” Peter looked around the store. “Cards?”

“No point in gambling if the money’s worth nothing,” Roger complained. “Models?”

“You don’t have the patience for those,” Francine said. She held up both hands as he rounded on her, affronted. “And neither do I.”

“There has to be something here that doesn’t bore one, or all of us, to tears.” Peter looked around again. “Darts?”

“Against Roger?”

Roger smirked. “I vote yes.”

“Well, put it in the cart then.” Francine rolled her eyes. “I suppose he can be allowed to win at _something_.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Yes, I probably am.” Francine mimed throwing a dart at him, but he just grinned. “Board games?”

“No Monopoly.” Peter made a face. “That game was designed to cause you to hate your family and friends.”

“I vote no on board games. There’s not enough strategy or there’s too much.” Roger tossed a set of dice marked ‘YAHTZEE’ back on the nearest shelf. “Maybe we need a hobby.”

“We? Someone I know likes to hang around on the roof taking potshots at the dead. You’ve got some sort of strange score-keeping going on. That’s _your_ hobby.” Francine realized she was brandishing a toy monkey and hastily set it back on the shelf. 

“We. We should have something we do together. Other than survive.” Roger eyed the monkey warily. “Those things are creepy.”

“Agreed.” Peter sighed, leaning on the cart. “But I’m not sure games are the answer.”

“Then what? It’s not like this place lacks _things_. It has an endless variety of things. Watercolors? Photography? Knitting?” Francine turned in a slow circle, looking at the various displays. “If this place doesn’t have it, one of the others probably will.”

“Weren’t there remote control airplanes in that shop by the fountain with the colored lights?” Peter asked. “They might even have had some cars.”

Roger brightened. “That could be fun. There’s plenty of room in here for that.”

“All right.” Francine nodded. “We’ll start there.”

“Races,” Roger suggested, grinning.

“You just aren’t happy unless you’re keeping score.”

“Of course not. The fun is in the competition!”

Peter shook his head. “And this is why no one sane plays Monopoly.”

**

“Okay, so that’s the altimeter, that’s windspeed….” Peter scowled at the instruments.

Francine was sitting in the back, various manuals spread out on her lap and the seat beside her. “Are you sure you want to try this?”

“No. But I’ve had a few lessons, and I’ve been up in a few helicopters in my time. I’m pretty sure I can get this bird off the ground. In very good weather, I can probably even keep her there, as long as we fly nice and low.” Peter tapped his fingers against the stick. “It’s landing I’m not so sure about, or bad weather and high winds, and maintenance is going to be at least as important.”

“I’ve got the instructions for maintenance. Pre-flight checks, post-flight checks - even pictures of what everything is supposed to look like.” Roger was sitting in the front beside Peter, holding a manual of his own. “So we can go through all of that easily enough.”

“Well, let’s start with that and then we can experiment.” Peter sighed. “Start at the beginning. Let’s get familiar with this thing.”

“Right. Step one -”

They didn’t attempt to take the helicopter up or even turn it on. Not that day, nor the next. On the other hand, they were all becoming very familiar with pre-flight checks and how to read the instruments.

“That’s not enough,” was Peter’s continued objection. “Actually taking her up and flying her is something, you’ll note, that they don’t provide any actual instructions for. We’ll have to experiment. _Carefully_.”

“We’ll pick a day where the weather’s nice and there’s no wind,” Francine decided. “Just to see if you can take her up and bring her back down.”

“If you can figure it out, you can show us.” Roger was flipping through the manual again. “But we’ll have to keep experimentation to a minimum before we decide to leave. This thing doesn’t exactly have a lot of fuel.”

“I’ll work on it,” Peter promised, “but I still don’t like it.”

**

“Roger, if you send one more of those blasted airplanes through here while I’m trying to cook…?”

**

“It’s feeling more homey in here,” Roger announced one evening, dropping onto the sofa. “I don’t like it.”

“You choose _now_ to join the rest of us in our existential crisis?” Peter looked up from the stove where eggs and steak were sizzling in a pan. “What brought this on?”

“Francine was right. We’re boxing ourselves in here. This isn’t living, it’s existing. We’re just going in circles, like those miserable bastards outside.” Roger paused. “God, that’s horrible.”

“Any suggestions?”

“I’d like to say ‘leave’ but it’s not that easy, is it.” It wasn’t a question. “I’m worried about Francine.”

“Worried about her? Or worried about what’s happening to her?”

“Both, I guess. I accidentally walked in on her, earlier. She was throwing up and not happy to see me.”

Peter laughed, softly. “I can’t say I’d be happy to see you either, given those circumstances.”

“That’s not the point. She’s going to have a baby. Probably soon. This - this isn’t the place for that.” Roger sighed, sliding sideways on the couch until he was lying on his side.

“Better here than out there. Here we’ve got a full drugstore, diapers, heat, fresh water -”

“We could pack everything we’d need into the helicopter. There have to be doctors out there somewhere. Right?” Roger stared at Peter’s back. “Stop cooking and listen to me.”

“I am listening, and if I stop cooking, our dinner will burn.” Peter shifted to where he could make eye contact with Roger. “There are other people out there. I picked up a ham radio a few weeks ago and I’ve been listening.”

Roger sat bolt upright. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because, thus far, all I’ve heard is other people calling for help - and even they’re getting fewer.” Peter shook his head. “I haven’t heard anything useful, not yet. When I do, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Bring it out, set it up. We can take turns listening,” Roger raised his voice as Peter opened his mouth, talking over the other man’s objection. “Even Francine. We shouldn’t waste an opportunity for learning something useful, even if it is depressing.”

“You sure about that?”

“Partners, remember? Francine would be really mad that you’ve been hiding something from her.”

Peter cracked an unwilling smile. “Yeah, she really would.”

“Yes, I really would.” Francine didn’t sound particularly upset. “What’re you hiding from me?”

“Peter found a ham radio and has been listening to the dreary sound of other people calling for help,” Roger responded promptly. “If you’re going to be mad at him, can I have his steak?”

“A ham radio? Do those have much of a range?” 

Peter gave her a wary look, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. “This one? Maybe fifty miles. Probably less.”

“There’s a lot of city in that range.” Francine moved to sit beside Roger on the sofa. “And you’ve heard nothing useful? Nothing at all?”

“Nothing but the same few rumors, none of which anyone can confirm, a lot of useless personal information and a dwindling number of calls for help.” Peter shrugged, turning back to his cooking. “I didn’t say anything because it didn’t seem helpful.”

“You never know.” Francine took the glass Roger offered her. “You’re not listening very often, or we’d’ve noticed. Roger’s right. Bring it out here and set it up. We might learn something.”

“Roger,” with a certain amount of vengeance for being tattled on, “is having an existential crisis.”

“Finally?”

“I find that insulting,” Roger told her, attempting to take back the glass.

“Do you have any ideas?” Francine twitched it out of his reach. “New ones, I mean.”

“... try to find a doctor, load up the helicopter and make a run for it?” Roger shifted uncomfortably. 

“Afraid of a pregnant woman?” Francine smiled faintly. “I’m not going to be angry about it at this point, Roger. That ship has sailed.”

“So do you think it’s a good idea?” Peter started setting food on plates, carefully not looking at the pair on the sofa.

“No.” Francine shook her head. “I want to leave - but not without knowing where we’re going, or what we’ll find when we get there.”

“You lack adventure in your soul - ow!”

Francine gave him a serene smile, as if she hadn’t just pinched him. “As long as we’re going to be taking off into the great unknown anyway, we can wait just a little longer.”

“I want adventure. I demand it.” Roger attempted to pinch her back, but retreated, hands raised in surrender as Francine made clear her counter-attack would involve emptying wine over his head.

“After dinner I’ll get the radio, and that’s as much adventure as you’ll get and you’ll like it. Now come eat while it’s still hot.”

**

Peter, it turned out, was a bum prophet.

After dinner, he brought the radio down from where he’d stashed it in the helicopter and set it up in the living room.

“This isn’t like listening to the radio broadcasts,” he cautioned them, making sure everything was connected. “It’s for conversations. There are six or seven operators I’ve been listening to - eavesdropping on, I guess. This early in the evening, most of them don’t broadcast. They’re livelier during the day, or later at night when they can’t sleep.”

After an hour or so of listening to static, Francine nodded off on the sofa. Peter covered her with a blanket, ignoring her sleepy mumbles, and tucked a pillow beneath her head. It wasn’t long before he joined her, leaning against the sofa, arms folded and slumped to one side.

Roger stayed awake, occasionally fiddling with the dials, hoping for the promised adventure. He didn’t have long to wait.

Peter and Francine found themselves rudely awoken by the raised voice of a stranger.

‘ _ **\- saw a goddamn helicopter on that roof over there.**_ ’

Roger was hunched over the ham radio, scowling, as Peter pulled himself upright. He waved a hand, and Francine wrapped herself in the blanket before moving to join them, rubbing at her eyes. 

‘ _D’you think they don’t have a radio?_ ’

‘ _They’ve got a helicopter, don’t they? Got to have a radio._ ’

‘ _Shut up. **Look, we could use a few supplies. You’ve got an entire mall. Bet you could spare us just a few bags of groceries.** ’_

_‘Yeah, a few. For the_ children.’

Raucous laughter broke out. 

Roger wordlessly wrapped an arm around Francine, who was staring at the radio as if it were a poisonous snake.

“What do you think they want?” she whispered.

“Everything we got,” Peter responded grimly. “Shh.”

‘ _ **We’ve just got a few mouths to feed. You can’t have too many people in there.**_ ’

“Fishing for information, or maybe just an answer.” Roger scowled at the radio. “I don’t like this.”

“Maybe they’re like us,” Francine ventured. Even she didn’t believe it, and it showed.

“Those’re the last people we want to meet,” Peter told her flatly. 

‘ _ **Look, we tried to be nice -** ’_

_‘Yeah, we’re all about bein’ nice.’_

_‘ **\- but if you ain’t gonna share, well, we’ll just come on down and help ourselves!**_ ’

More raucous laughter followed, and Roger and Peter exchanged glances. 

“Francine, get the bags.” Peter went for the binoculars as Roger grabbed a pair of rifles. “Come on, let’s get to the roof.”

The view from the roof was bleak, the shifting mob of the dead thicker than Francine remembered, turned a bizarre shade of pale by the lights in the parking lot. 

“Look, over there.”

A set of headlights became visible atop the ridge not far from the truck depot. Then another. Another. 

“Oh, that’s hilarious. ‘A few mouths to feed’. I’d hate to see what they consider a lot.” Roger scowled over the edge of the roof as Peter adjusted his binoculars. 

“This is bad.” Peter scowled before handing the binoculars to Francine. “Keep an eye out. Let us know when they reach the parking lot. They’re going to get in here - and they’re going to let those creatures in with them.”

“There must be hundreds of them down there, and they’ll draw the rest with all that noise.” Roger was grinning, just a little.

“Oh god, no.” Francine peered through the binoculars, and then lowered them, realizing that both men were moving away. “Where are you going?”

“To get the keys. We’ll lock the place down, make them work for it.” Peter was already in motion. “Once we’re done, we’ll get back up here, lock down tight and wait for them to finish their looting.”

“What if they decide to stay?” Francine had taken his place, elbows braced against the lip of the roof. 

“What if they decide they want the helicopter?”

“These guys are on the move, looks like that’s how they stay alive. I don’t think they’ll stay,” Peter said. “And unless they have a pilot, I don’t think they’ll bother with the roof and the helicopter.”

“Could have someone from Korea, or ‘nam,” Roger offered. “You don’t know.”

Peter scowled. “Fine. Francine, get the bags in the helicopter - and sing out when they hit the parking lot.”

The two men vanished down the ladder, leaving Francine alone on the roof. She couldn’t blame them for leaving her behind. They’d have to run flat out to beat the approaching vehicles, and she was several weeks past that sort of thing. But she could make sure everything was in the helicopter, she could sing out a warning and, thanks to all of their practice, she could take care of the pre-flight check. If things went really wrong - well.

Francine hastily loaded the bags into the helicopter, checking to be certain the rest of their supplies were secure within before returning to the edge of the roof. There’d be time enough to check and start the helicopter once the invaders were inside.

Below, Roger and Peter had grabbed the keys and armed themselves. 

“I’ll take the closest doors,” Roger offered. “I can move faster.”

“They’re going to come in through the loading doors, given the direction.” Peter nodded. “We’ll start at that end. You ready?”

Roger checked his walkie-talkie. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Do not take any stupid risks.”

“Define stupid.”

Peter scowled at him. “I will leave your ass here if you screw around and get yourself killed.”

Roger gave him a crooked smile. “You’d sort of have to.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

**

The halls of the shopping mall stretched wide and empty as Roger and Peter raced toward the loading dock. They knew every store by now, the fastest route everywhere, and exactly where the locks were for every door.

Gates started rattling down and keys turning to the improbably jaunty music that still played, non-stop, in the main areas of the shopping mall. They managed to cover the stores in the hallway that lead to the loading dock just as Francine’s voice sang out through their walkie-talkies.

“They’re in the parking lot, heading for the loading dock!”

“It won’t take them long to move that truck, let us know when!” Roger didn’t even slow down, rounding the corner and ducking into the toy store, reaching for the lever that would bring the security gate rattling down.

The sound of an explosion had Francine ducking and both men below in the mall freezing for a brief second. A second explosion brought Francine’s voice to them again, tight with fear. “Grenades, I think. Please hurry.”

“We’re hurrying, Francine. You stay up on that roof. If we give you the word, you pull up the ladder and close the window.” Peter swung into the perfume shop, reaching for the security gate. 

“They’re in the truck,” she was almost whispering, afraid of giving away their position, or her own. “You have about… two minutes before they’re inside.”

There was no answer this time, nor did she expect one. “I’m guessing maybe… fifteen of them? They have a van, so maybe more.”

Inside the mall, Roger put on speed. One more gate, one more lock - they were covering ground quickly.

“I’m heading upstairs, Roger, just in case they take that first escalator.”

“Got it. How they doing, Francine?”

“They’re in!” as the truck’s engine roared to life. “They’re driving in. Get off the main floor!”

“Almost done,” Roger was out of breath, heading for the Penney’s, the last store at that end. “Going to have to leave a few. Heading into Penney’s and up.”

“I’m up at the Brown Derby. Could use a hand up here.”

“On my way.”

Francine watched the train of motorcycles vanish into the shopping mall, staring with horrified fascination as the dead that had been congregating in the parking lot began to slowly, inevitably, move inside.

“They’re coming in. All of them.”

“That’ll keep the bikers busy, then. We’re still working on the doors.” Peter locked another gate. “Where you at, Francine?”

“Pre-flight checks. Even if we need to wait till sunrise, I want it ready.”

“Good thinking.” Roger raced up the escalator inside the Penney’s. “How’s it looking, Peter?”

“So far so good.” He’d paused in his closing of gates, wanting to make sure the noise below was covering the rattling sound of his own activity. Sliding cautiously to the edge of the railing, he peered down into the chaos below. “These guys know just enough to be dangerous - to themselves, if no one else.”

“They’re going to run themselves out of ammo in no time. We should’ve rigged the gun shop to explode, something with a lot of shrapnel.” 

“Oh, that sounds _safe_ ,” Francine snapped. “And subtle. You might as well hang a neon sign.”

“We might as well get something out of it,” Roger retorted. “They’re ruining our _home_. This is _our_ place.”

The squeal of tires and revving of engines had both Peter and Roger setting their teeth. “They’re turning this into a goddamn slapstick comedy,” Peter reported softly. “Creme pies and seltzer bottles - what is this, the Marx Brothers?”

“I hope they get eaten.” Francine climbed into the helicopter, pulling out the now dog-eared manual.

“You could hope that someone shoots them,” Roger suggested, slipping out of the Penney’s and moving cautiously to peer over the railing himself. “Someone blond and handsome?”

“Roger, if you survive, I am going to strangle you.”

“Get in line.” Peter suggested. “Those bikers are firing at everything that moves, and a few things that don’t. He’ll get his ass shot just standing around.”

“Nobody appreciates me.”

“I promise to appreciate you the moment you get back up to the roof.”

“Let it go, Francine. If he’s determined to get himself killed, we’ll name the baby after someone else.” 

“Oh, that is low. I thought I meant something to the pair of you.”

“In your dreams.” Peter saw movement near the escalator and began to back away. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Here they come.”

“Can’t I shoot just one? Please?” Roger grimaced as he watched the lock be blown off one of the shops and the gate be shoved upward. The sound of breaking glass sounded again, barely audible through the continuing gunfire. “They’d never even _notice_.”

“Incompetence doesn’t equal harmlessness. I think it’s time to withdraw.” Peter winced as he watched the invaders chasing each other around, hooting wildly, their arms full of loot. “They’re going to be busy for a while.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“As long as they don’t set any fires. Where you at, Roger?”

Gunfire started up, signalling the arrival of the main influx of the dead, moving slowly into the mall in an inexorable wave.

“Just locking the second floor of Penney’s. You?”

“Heading back upstairs. This is getting rapidly out of hand. Don’t shoot anyone.” 

There was a crash and more gunfire.

“That had better not be you, Roger.”

“No, though I wish it were. Jesus, what’re they doing down there?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. Get a move on, Roger.” Peter ran flat out across the polished floors. “I’m almost to the ladder.”

“Are we really just going to let them -”

“Yes, yes we are.” It was Francine’s voice that answered him, flat and angry. “They’re just things, Roger. Fighting over _things_ isn’t an adventure. You wanted an adventure, well get up here, and we’ll head out into the great unknown. If that isn’t an adventure, I don’t know what is.”

“Well, if you’re offering certain death, the airborne edition, I guess I’m in.” Roger turned reluctantly away from the sound of gunfire and whooping and screaming. “On my way.”

“Might want to move a little faster,” Peter gritted out. “Some of them are already on the second floor.”

“Heading back into the Penney’s,” Roger responded, backing toward the glass doors. “I can see three of them, and if we don’t want me to lead them home -?”

“Just hurry, damn it.”

“I _will_ leave your ass here, Roger.”

Roger chuckled, still moving slowly so as not to attract attention. “Fine, fine. I’m on my way.”

**

The walkie-talkie was silent after that. Francine sat in the helicopter, holding it between her hands, _hating_. She hated the invaders, senseless, thieving vandals that had destroyed her home. She hated Roger, for being such a reckless adrenaline junkie. She hated Peter, for being so logical and for leaving her behind. Again.

The waiting was almost more than she could bear, but she didn’t dare use the walkie-talkie. With the invaders so close, it was entirely possible she might give Roger and Peter away. Time slipped away from her, and she got out of the helicopter, moving to where she could reach the ladder. Roger had rigged it with a rope and, if necessary, she could draw it up and buy herself a few extra minutes to try to get the helicopter off the roof without crashing it.

As she waited, she felt her fear and anger grow. Waiting. Alone. That seemed to be the sum of her life, now. Waiting for Stephen. Waiting for Roger and Peter. Waiting, alone and angry and helpless.

She paused, looking down at the rifle in her hand. She’d been carrying it so often that she’d taken it with her, into and out of the helicopter, without even thinking about it.

Not so helpless, then.

Grimly, she slung it over her shoulder and started down the bolted access ladder, reaching for the rope attached to the wooden one below. It would be awkward, but she’d be able to get it up to the roof - and then she’d make sure that anyone who came up into their home was very, very sorry that they’d dared.

“Jesus, Francine, planning on leaving us behind?”

She slipped on the ladder, catching herself at the last minute to glare down at Roger. “Yes. Yes I was. I was going to leave you here to be _eaten_ , you jerk.”

He grinned brightly up at her. “No you weren’t. You promised me adventure, remember?”

“She was just being smart,” Peter’s voice came from the doorway. “Now let’s all get up on the roof, shall we? That merry troop of vandals is well on the way to getting themselves eaten and I, for one, would prefer to observe what happens next from a distance.”

**

They huddled together on the roof, leaning against the edge above the loading bay and each other. There was a faint, chill wind as the darkness of the night began to slide toward dawn. The faint sound of the motorcycle engines could still be heard, along with the occasional gunshot, but the sound seemed to be fainter with every passing hour.

“Won’t they ever get tired of it?” Francine looked down, seeing the reflection of a headlight as another motorcycle pulled a curve inside the mall.

“I don’t think they’re still in there because they’re still looting,” and there was a certain, grim satisfaction in Peter’s voice. “I think there are too many of the dead. I think they can’t get out.”

“That means they’ll eventually try for the roof.” Roger no longer sounded exhilarated by the prospect. “It’s the only way out.”

“They could break through one of the other entrances,” Francine said. “Couldn’t they?”

“Not with the trucks in the way. One of the employee entrances, maybe. I’m not sure they’re smart enough for that.” Peter peered over the edge. “There aren’t as many gunshots, that’s for sure.”

“I was promised adventure,” Roger reminded them, attempting a smile. “Think it’s light enough yet?”

“We can see,” Francine said. “At least enough to make out things on the ground.”

“Better to leave while we can.” Peter sighed. “Have I mentioned how much I hate this idea?”

“No.”

“Never.”

“Have you ever heard him complain about this idea?”

“News to me.”

“Ha, ha, ha.” Peter got to his feet, pulling Francine and Roger with him. “You should take that act on the road.” 

“Not into the air?”

“I _will_ leave you both here to freeze on this rooftop.”

“No, you won’t.” Francine tucked her arm through his.

“You wouldn’t know what to do without us.” Roger tucked his arm through Francine’s. “Shall we?”

“Shall we what? Take our helicopter with its tiny amount of fuel and head off into the great unknown?”

“He sounds grumpy,” as Francine mock-whispered to Roger, “but it’s all an act.”

“Get in the damn helicopter,” and Peter was smiling, just a little. “We were promised an adventure.”

Roger gave an exhilarated whoop, dashing for the helicopter. Francine laughed softly as Peter wrapped an arm around her.

“No regrets?”

She gave him a smile, adjusting her rifle to lean into him. “No regrets at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted, very badly, to make this a poly or threesome relationship. Unfortunately, an injury and subsequent medication forced me to cut back on the story.
> 
> The author would like you to know that there should be a great deal more relationship building and sexual tension in this story.


End file.
